Burn Notice: Heatwave
by LillyHobbs
Summary: After she escaped from the fire, Michael and Fi began a discrete romantic relationship. This story takes place between "Hot Spot" and "Fearless Leader". It's NOT graphic, but suggestive. Any pictures/vids in your own head are not my responsibility. LOL!
1. Chapter 1

HEATWAVE

CHAPTER 1

He spooned up a mound of blueberry yogurt and dropped a raw almond in the middle. He considered it the perfect blend of carbohydrates, protein and fat, in one convenient bite. He was sitting on the stool at the counter in what could be called the kitchen or dining room or breakfast nook, since that area served in all those capacities. That same countertop was, also, his conference room table, electronic work bench and bomb-making factory. For a spy, maximum utilization of resources was a way of life. His loft, condemned and deemed unfit for human habitation, was just cavernous space with only the bare essentials of furniture. The mattress and springs, resting on the floor in the center of the room, served both as bedroom and as couch for his guests. Up the rusted metal staircase was a cramped overlook with just enough room for the computer equipment. In the corner, the only interior walls enclosed the small, and decidedly primitive, bathroom. But, this had become his home. It was the best home he had ever had.

At the moment, it was more like it was his personal sauna. It was Florida in the summer, so sweltering was to be expected. The state's saving grace, if it had one, was the costal breeze which made it worthwhile to keep the windows and balcony door open. Air movement provided enough evaporation of sweat to make it feel several degrees cooler than the actual temperature. But, Florida was currently in a heat wave that was proving brutal. It was the hottest week in the hottest year in one of the hottest states in the country. And for the last week, the air had been unmoving. He had been forced to augment his furnishings with a box fan, which was now sitting on the large wooden spool, turned on its side, which served as a table.

It wasn't as though he couldn't handle heat. He'd done jobs in Africa; he'd spent considerable time in the Middle East. Iraq could be blistering, a heat that redefined what it meant to be hot. Southern Afghanistan had a number of other disadvantages besides climate but, at least, it wasn't Florida. For two decades, he'd done his best not to spend vacations in his home state. There were good, sound reasons for that, his mother being the biggest one of those. But, the weather ran a close second. If there wasn't a hurricane, then there was a tornado. If it wasn't a freaky freeze that caused the price of oranges to skyrocket, then it was a heat wave sending all the old folks to cooling shelters. His mother was calling him daily, to remind him to check on her.

_I think Florida must have pissed off Aeolus, the god of the winds. He has taken his favors elsewhere. This last week, the air has been still, motionless. With the thermometer approaching triple digits, everyone is cranky. The homicide rate is up 17 percent. Bags of ice have become a commodity, worthy of being traded on Wall Street. I'm putting salt tablets in my Kool-Aid. How hot is it? It's so hot that I have been voluntarily visiting my mother, just to sit in her air conditioning._

_They say it's not the heat, that it's the humidity. That's a damn lie. It's the energy-sapping, mind-numbing, bone-melting heat. The humidity just adds insult to injury._

She came in on a wave of steam. He knew it was her without turning to look; he could feel the molecules of the air vibrate with that nervous energy she always brought into the room. She locked the door. Then, she slammed the deadbolt home. Click. Clank. Snick.

She came up behind him and rested a hand on his back for balance, while she toed off her high-heeled sandals. She let her beach bag fall to the floor beside them. She leaned against him, resting her cheek on his back and sliding her arms around his waist.

He shivered. "You've had the air conditioner on high." Unlike his Charger, which had no air, her Saab could take the temperature down to refrigerator levels. It felt like she was enclosed in a frigid bubble.

"You're sizzling," she said.

"Thank you."

She tried not to laugh. "Egomaniac," she said, but in a fond way. She slid her cold hands under his shirt.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Eh. You know, Michael, it's not as much fun when they don't at least try to make a break for it." There was as much boredom as aggravation in her sigh.

"Another day, another bounty," he said.

"And you?"

"I fixed the leak in Mom's sink. " Now, he was the one who sounded annoyed. "She tried to help me. I tried to commit suicide, afterward, by going for a run."

"Did it work?" She brushed her thumbs over his skin.

"Too damn hot ta . . . Ahh." Her fingers –not too hard but just hard enough- had plucked at his nipples

"You're all sweaty." She tugged upward on his shirt. He managed to get the last bite of yogurt in before she pulled it over his head, just in case he might not have another chance.

"Did you have lunch?" He waved his spoon, an invitation.

"Umm. Baklava." He looked over at his shoulder at her. "Some days, I just want the dessert." He didn't have a sweet tooth, but that was his favorite. He tried for an expression halfway between hopeful and pathetic. "Yes, I brought you some. The carton's in my bag."

She leaned against him, hands on his thighs, and pressed her lips in an open-mouthed kiss to his bare back. He wondered if her mouth tasted of honey from the pastry. He felt her low hum, rumbling through his backbone and around the curve of his ribs, as though he were a tuning fork struck by lightning. He could see where this was going.

"Hmm." she said. "Where's Sam?"

"He and Miss Reynolds went on a drive down the coast in the convertible. He said they were going to get dinner somewhere, stay at a bed-and-breakfast and be back tomorrow."

"Huh," she said, careful to be casual. "What's your Mom doing this afternoon?"

"She and Laura are joining a busload of Mall Walkers for an outing."

"Your mother is walking at the mall?" She didn't try to hide her disbelief.

"Naw, they won't let her smoke in there. There was just room on the bus. They're going to the four o'clock early-bird all-you-can-eat buffet. And, then, bingo. I told her I'd talk to her tomorrow."

She went still. "Is Nate back?"

"Don't know. Don't care. Not here."

"It's a miracle," she said.


	2. Chapter 2

7

Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. This story takes place between "Hot Spot" and their heartbreaking date in the restaurant. It assumes that Michael and Fiona are adults. Content is not graphic but suggestive. This is the first Burn Notice story that I have written in 3rd person with 1st person voiceovers. If the characterization seems "off" to you, please review and let me know. It's the only way that I can get better. For non-members, you do not need to sign up to review; just enter your name as "anon" or "forum member". Chapter III will be posted next Thursday.

HEATWAVE

Chapter II

She leaned against him. She had on a low-necked, lime-green sundress, sinfully short, with spaghetti straps. Where there was skin-to-skin contact, she was so cold that it seemed as though her flesh was burning him. Even her nose felt icy when she rubbed it against the knobs of his vertebrae, setting off fiery bursts in his nerve endings.

He reached behind him and toyed with the hem of her dress, rolling the material between his fingers. Her thumb and index finger did not quite meet around his wrist as she resisted his upward pull. She always knew how to get his attention. He turned on the stool to face her and she stepped into the V of his legs. He lifted the hem just enough to see that her panties were the same color as the yellow trim on her dress.

_Do all women match up their underwear with their . . . outerwear? Even her panties and bra, when she wears one, almost always come as a set. What's the purpose? Even a spy doesn't get a chance to know about that unless he has a reason – and permission – to look. And, by that point, most guys aren't going to be paying attention to color coordination._

She rested her still-cold cheek against his chest, placing her palm over his heart. He traced the margins of her shoulder blade with the edge of his thumb, just skimming the surface. She shivered. He tightened his other arm around her, claiming her for the afternoon. They sighed in unison.

They were being discrete, in this new phase of their life. For once, she was the one urging him to keep their personal life private. Although he was confused about her reasons, he was just happy to avoid any unhelpful advice from his mother. Apparently, Sam had said something to Fi after the fire. Michael suspected she was more hurt by the comments, whatever they were, than angry. Or, he would have been hearing about it, _**all**_ about it. But, she was consistently deflecting his questions. He found that more alarming than if she had just slapped Sam around.

On the plus side, it was exciting to have this secret life. They were getting good at finding little moments, pieces of time, when they could be together. But, if she spent the night, she always left early, after a quick breakfast of yogurt. He thought that was carrying the secrecy a little too far, since they were adults who had been having sex, on and off – well, mostly off -, for a good many years. He wasn't sure they could fool Sam for much longer. And, he thought his mother already suspected the truth. But, and this _**was**_ a miracle, even Madeline was keeping her thoughts to herself. He had asked Fi, a few weeks after they had reconnected, how long she thought they could hide the situation from his mother. Better that we don't get her hopes up, she'd said, and her dry tone had taken him aback. But, after those harrowing hours of searching, thinking he had lost her to the fire, he would never forget the gush of exhausted relief when he found her at the loft. After that, he would give her anything. Except, of course, the one thing she wanted the most.

He leaned back and peered down the square-cut neck of her dress.

"Excuse me." She tried to hide her amusement behind a mock glare.

He picked up his phone from the counter. He turned it off, watching her.

"Wow," she said. "I'm impressed." She leaned over his leg, bending to rummage in her bag. He could hear things clinking together. He gathered the material of her dress in his hand.

"I really like thong underwear," he said. "Did I ever tell you that?"

"I think you might have mentioned it." She straightened up and, triumphantly, waved her phone, which made its annoying "off" sound.

Only then did she let him pull the material up and over her head. With the dress inside out, he could see that there was a built-in bra in the same shade of green. Women were full of surprises, he thought. He let the dress slip off the ends of his fingers to the floor beside her shoes. Her skin was golden and felt baby-oil soft.

_For such a petite woman, she has a lot of skin. _

He laid his hand along her cheek and traced the curve of her jaw. "You smell good." He sniffed, bending closer and closer until she was hunching her shoulders in playful protest. She could be ticklish. "Cherry-vanilla?"

He felt dizzy with the aroma of her. There was always that rush, with her. But since the fire, it wasn't always the frantic white-heat of their earlier couplings. They had learned to take advantage of the times when nobody was being shot at or blown up or hunted down. Somehow, the way they were together had become something different. It was, sometimes, unbearably good: warm and soft, slow and wet and sweet. Without the tensions of their past differences, their life fell into a smoother rhythm: advancing, receding, but always returning. He was surprised by the unhurried yearnings to be found in long, lingering afternoons that were as much talk as touch. They might doze to the low sounds of the blues, which might lure them into a languid nap, to wake tangled together like puppies. There were no boundaries in that place and they hardly knew where one ended and the other began. He knew the things that made her moan and the things that made her sigh. She knew all his sweet spots. She could measure out his pleasure at a pace just short of torture, with all the promise of satisfaction to come. Then, of course, there were the times that were anything but leisurely and the contrast could be . . . astounding.

Finally, when blood and breath had slowed, with bodies relaxed and brains stilled, they would lay, looking up into that vast loft space. While it had been so hot, they would lie under the fan, their sweat drying, with only their hands touching. Sometimes, he would wrap his fingers around her wrist. That contact was their bond and his pledge, acknowledging the ties that bound them fast.

"Have any plans for this afternoon?" He gave her his best Groucho Marx imitation eyebrow- waggle.

"Quilting bee?" she suggested, with an attempt at eyebrow movement herself. "I saw a show on that."

He was much better at keeping a straight face than she was. "You've been watching the History Channel again. Didn't I warn you about that?"

"Where _is_ Iowa?" She stared off into the distance as though that state might be just beyond the balcony. "Somewhere in the middle?"

He waved Iowa off. "I'll buy you a map," he promised. "We could order pizza in."

She entered negotiation mode. "No mushrooms."

"You can have anything you want," he said.

"Let's go to my place later. The pizza guy isn't scared to deliver there."

He nodded. "And you have air conditioning."

"A real bathroom." She hated his shower stall.

"Big enough to get rowdy in," he said happily.

"Um. Then, I'll need a nap first."

"A nap, my ass!"

"Yes," she murmured and gave him a slow, wicked smirk.

Then, her smile faded. "Can we hold off on the burn notice for today?" Her voice was so low that he wasn't sure whether she meant the question for him or herself.


	3. Chapter 3

5

Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. This story takes place between "Hot Spot" and their heartbreaking date in the restaurant. It assumes that Michael and Fiona are adults. Content is not graphic but suggestive. Review if you like it or, especially, if you don't. Help me be a better writer. For non-members, you do not need to sign up to review; just enter your name as "anon" or "forum member".

HEATWAVE

CHAPTER III

_I find her looking at me, sometimes, when she thinks I can't see. From my peripheral vision, I see that look –a profound soul-deep sadness- that breaks my heart. It takes her a moment to school that look before she can put on her normal face. But, the echoes of that sorrow linger and form the template for every expression she owns._

A little frown crinkled the skin between her eyes. He realized he had not responded to her last question. The gleam in her eyes had cooled.

He ran his hand up her back. "Sorry, what did you say? I was distracted." He brushed his lips against the line of her jaw. She turned her head to give him access to the other side.

_Fi wants the life we have now. She wants the comfort of knowing that tomorrow we will have breakfast together, that we'll cook dinner for my mom on Thursdays, and that we will work together for the next crazy client that Sam brings around. She is missing me before I am gone. For her, every moment has the potential to be the last moment. It may be an instant known only in retrospect, but it will be the hour and the minute that she will grieve over or rage against for the rest of her life. She thinks it is what she will have to remember me by when I am gone. She is mourning my loss even now, and she is more afraid of losing me to my job than to death._

"Time for a real life?" she prompted him. "Can you leave Michael Westen, spy _extraordinaire, _locked up somewhere in the back of your brain? No recon today. No background checks. No gunfire."

_If I get my life back, my old job, then I won't be in Miami. Not all the time, anyway. And, yes, my life has its dangers. So does hers. There are risks that can't be totally controlled and factors that can't be foreseen in everyone's life. Granted, I have more of those than most people. And, yes, standing alone in the shower in the quiet, I worry. When you're a spy, it's dangerous to lose your edge, to let your skills erode. It's even more dangerous to doubt yourself. Fi isn't the only one wondering if I have changed so much that I can never go back. How can I promise her that I won't disappear into an endless interrogation in a middle-eastern prison? Or that my fate won't be a flash of light and heat from a bullet I don't have time to hear? _

"Be the real Michael Westen?" asked the woman who had known him first as Michael McBride.

He deliberately widened his eyes and nodded, at first slowly and, then, with increasing vigor until he looked like a bobble-head doll gone mad. She had to laugh, but she was nothing if not tenacious.

"Be just my Michael?" she asked. She rested her forehead against his sternum. He could hear the tears held back.

"Yes," he said, holding her away from him so that he could look into her eyes. He hoped she could see down to the heart of him. "Yes, I can do that."

_Strategy is the way you prepare for the battle to come – moving men and equipment into place, forging supply lines, determining the plan of action. I have explained myself to her: my patriotism and my sense of duty. I know that I can make a difference – sometimes, a crucial difference. She hears me, but she doesn't understand these things in the visceral way that I do. What I have no words to explain is that, when I left Florida at seventeen, I began to make that boy into what I am today. I can't give that up. I am nothing if I am not that man. _

_On the other hand, tactics are the science of maneuvering forces once you have engaged the enemy. Fi and I have come to the crossroads between strategy and tactics. She has come to the point where she must push and I must push back. I am a very good tactician in military and intelligence situations. But the tactics of the heart are a mystery to me._

"For a little while," she says.

He could offer only what he had. "We have all afternoon. And all evening. And all night." He winked at her to make her laugh again and she did.

"You still have your pants on," she observed, hooking her fingers in his belt loops.

"So do you." He rested his chin on her shoulder and sighted down her back toward her feet. "Almost." He let his hand drift down past the lumbar sway to the swell of _derrière_ and squeezed. When she smiled at him, there was no trace of sadness. He bent his head to take his first taste of her. And, yes, her mouth held a hint of honey.


End file.
